


still the long night

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: BAMF Prompto Argentum, Blind BAMF Ignis Scientia, Blind Character, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Daemons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Rescue, The Long Night, World of Ruin, and the wholesale killing of, happy birthday Prompto Argentum, in the heat of the fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 21:12:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16395179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: It's a struggle, it's a war, and Prompto is about sick and tired of the daemons and of the fear.But then the night also brings him back to someone important.





	still the long night

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday Prompto! I can't believe I got to write you another birthday fic! *kweh!* *hearts!*

Shriek in the distance, rising high-pitched note of pure evil, like a terror of a trill or some kind of maddening taunting whistling, and he grits his teeth and keeps going because it’s not clarity he wants or needs or is looking for, here where he’s caught in the murk and the mire of the night and its horror-shadows, the hulking predators made out of nothing but darkness and disease and distilled fear. Clarity here will give him nightmares, will leave him screaming and crying and unable to sleep: so no, not clarity, not that, that’s useless to him now. 

Nights of horrific deeds and horrific dreams, one long long _long_ damned night, and he hisses in pain when he puts his foot down wrong -- shit, shit, slope, the land’s beginning to slope down and -- who’s the fucking genius who placed a haven and its pale imitation of shelter in a hollow in hills, in a place surrounded by falling elevations, the long low drop from higher places? It might well have been some kind of fortress against a single night of daemon attacks, some kind of temporary respite from the nightly horror show, but -- in the past it was possible to just wait out a night and then the morning would allow people to escape the enclosure, the cage, like bait tethered out to wait with terror and see if survival was even a thing to hope for -- 

Has he already mentioned that this is -- the worst night? The longest night?

He curses, anyway, tumbles and ducks and weaves down and down and only barely manages not to roll ass over head into the hollow, into the haven, crashing through the underbrush and the fallen and dying trees, the brittle stink of dried leaves and crumbling grass, fouled everywhere and he doesn’t, he doesn’t see the bones on the path, he ignores them as best as he can or else he’ll add his own remains to the collection and -- no, no, not going to die tonight, not going to fail now.

He will not fail. He cannot fail.

Not like this, please, no.

And maybe he cries when he finally crosses the flicking pale-blue lines. Who’s to say? Who’s here to look at the salt-trails on his cheeks, the lines of worn-in sobs around his mouth? Who’s here to see the long fresh scratches, the unraveling bandages, the scab-patches dotting his arms where he’s been so tempted to pick them off? Burns in the night, burns in the dark hours, bullet-paths burned into him, because somehow the magic’s still working and he can still fire off as many rounds as he needs, he doesn’t have to hoard his ammo, but now he no longer has the time to pick up after himself -- why? Because fucking daemons chasing him with every breath and every waking moment, that’s why -- and he’s burned himself over and over and over again, and -- this is probably why the other hunters with guns have resorted to long sleeves.

Worse: there’s no one to borrow clothes from any more, Prompto thinks, as he sits in the middle of the haven. As he curls up into a panicking roil of his nerves, his fear, his tears, tightening in on himself. Eyes down, he thinks, eyes down, steady on the hazy wash of haven-light. No night here. No daemons here. Nobody here but him.

Oh, but he shivers. His feet hurt so much. Bad socks, he thinks, he’s finally worn holes in the damn things and he’s honestly surprised he hasn’t gotten to this point sooner. It’s been years since he’s run and walked and limped on the blisters on his heels, on his soles. How he still has his own damn skin on with all his running, with all his trying to hide and stay alive in the here and now of cold and dark and teeth and claws, he doesn’t actually know.

He makes himself breathe and breathe and breathe again. If he could calm his own heart down, he would -- if he could find some kind of stillness, he’d take it and hold on to it with both hands.

Stillness: like the perfect moment of lining up the sights on his gun and the unlucky target downrange. The yield of the trigger, the force of the recoil. The breath to catch in order to come back to center mass. The breath to let him aim again. 

If he could be still enough to ignore the pacing hulking leering shadows beyond the perimeter -- maybe he could eat something, drink something, snatch a moment of sleep.

He’s still enough to feel the pinch of hunger, now, low and cramping like it’s hooked into his guts. 

And just before he puts his head down -- he’s never wanted to be watched in mid-meal -- there’s a shift in the wind, the fetid slow-moving moan of it, and he thinks he hears a voice, calling.

Instead of reaching for the corner of the Armiger that’s his, he goes for the gun holstered at his waist instead: and he’s shaking, but only a little, as he starts bringing it up in two hands. Swinging, slow, stepping evenly into shooting position. Weight distributed onto his toes, leading shoulder tensed and braced but elbows and wrists relaxed.

Eyes straining into the permanent murk. He can feel the headache coming on already, no thanks to his hopeless squint. 

Ears, too, and he can’t even tilt his head from side to side or else he’ll throw himself out of balance, out of readiness, and -- he’s safe here, he’s safe and in a haven, and every instinct is telling him to -- get the hell out of the haven and run towards whoever needs help. Whoever needs some kind of rescuing. The world is shadows and screaming enough already. He needs to help, that’s his vow, that’s his promise: and the only thing that’s holding him here is the last remnant of caution.

No point in surviving this long, in getting this far, and then getting himself eaten in a moment of recklessness. Might as well give up, then. 

But how to find the voice again? If he calls out, too, he’ll draw attention to himself, and that wouldn’t be a problem if he remained within the confines of the haven -- but the moment he steps back out of the blue-runed light he’ll be just as vulnerable, just as endangered.

Again the voice calls, and this time there’s a word, carried to him:

“Please!”

Shit, does the voice sound familiar or is he just reaching or is he actively starting to get bent out of shape by these days, these hours, this marathon relentless trial of just trying to make it through another hour? 

And he mutters to himself: “I am miserable, and I am alone in the dark, and I am fucked up beyond all recognition, and I am about to do something that doesn’t even make sense.”

He closes his eyes as he barrels out of the haven -- and almost within ten steps he has to empty his gun into the wide gaping maw of the thing that rises out of the night at him, that roars at him so he has to hold his breath or else suffocate on the stink of it. One more round between what he thinks are its eyes, or its primary eyes, or whatever the hell those things on stalks had been -- shudder, what the actual hell was it, does he even want to know? -- and then he’s shouting, panicking with every word, with every step: 

“Can you hear me? Where are you! Please answer me so I can come and get you!”

“Here,” comes the reply, faint, but -- not the kind of faint that turns his guts into curdled mush. Not the kind of faint that leaves him swearing under his breath.

Not so faint that he can’t recognize it -- that part is _real_ \-- and that’s enough to spur him on, and he leaps into the night, heedless now of the bones on the path, the ravening roars in the night that he -- silences as quickly as he can. He’s clearing a path and with his luck, he’ll need to clear it again on the way back to the haven. 

Funny how fear flashes away in the stress and the heartbeat-strike of combat, in the infested night, and that’s the last thought he manages to keep for himself because the next thing that happens is that there’s a hand -- an actual human hand! -- reaching out for him from the darkness and -- no more gloves, no more protection, just the actual rough burns and calluses that he knows and -- 

Spark in the night -- he feels the sudden surge of warmth in his fingertips, running like a thrill down his nerves, and he’s been looking everywhere, up to the treacherous sky, down to the deceiving ground, the shadows that throb like sick strange hallucinations and then he’s still, and he’s warm, and he finally turns to that hand that’s reached out for him, the person who’s been calling back to him, the voice that’s struck him from out of this night, out of his fears.

“Is it you?”

Whisper, that doesn’t even carry. Soft words, but Prompto can taste the steel in them, the warmth of blades carried so well, like reckless intimate companions through the nightmarish hours.

He smiles, he knows he can smile, at those unseeing eyes caught in radiating lines of scarred warmth: and he whispers back. “What proof do you need?”

Ignis’s smile is -- no more than a twitch of his mouth, in this night, in these dangerous moments of not-quite-respite, but it’s a damn good thing to see, Prompto thinks. A damn good moment of being still. “I can hear that it’s you. I can smell that it’s you. I can feel you, here,” and their hands are still joined. “I -- I can trust that it’s you, now, now that you’re nearer. Prompto.”

“Ignis,” he says, just as quietly. “I don’t know how you got here or why: but what do you need me to do now? There’s a haven -- ”

“Yes, I remember it. Lead me there. I’ll explain when, when we’re not quite stepping in it.”

What a phrase! Only Ignis! And the laugh bursts out of him on a choked breath, shock thrilling along his nerves, and he lets that laugh fall away into a smile that he only feels when he’s still, when he’s got all his focus. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, and he squeezes Ignis’s hand one more time, and he’s reluctant to let go: but he gets out his other gun, instead, two weapons in the darkness, and takes a breath, and watches everything again. Stillness that sharpens the world until he thinks he’ll fall into overload -- and at the same time the steady and steadying warmth at his back, the crystal-shard glimpse of summoned weapons that he catches out of the corner of his eye.

Not clarity but this stock-still sudden silence of the world in his head, his thoughts quieting as he asks, “Are you okay? Can you keep up with me?”

“Would you doubt me now?”

“No, never,” he says, and he lunges toward the daemon that’s bearing down on him, and he gets right into its monstrous face and he takes it down with three shots right in the head -- and he leaps off of it, into the next opponent, into the next, and behind him he can hear: more than just the rush of an elegant spear on the move -- the battered lines up and down its length and the ragged tassel fluttering like a banner, as its wielder flashes through his forms and buries the long, sword-shaped blade into a daemon’s head -- then out and into the harsh loud thump of the counterweight in the pommel, crack into another opponent --

He darts in and out of the play of the entire spear, the rush of its razor-passage against his bared arms, against the lank ends of his hair, the unraveling hems and seams of his jeans: in and out to fire and fire and fire against anything that gets past Ignis’s whirling guard, the radius that he describes with the deadly twirl of his body.

Slash of Ignis’s spear-head, metal-flare in the night against the muzzle-flash of Prompto’s guns, and it doesn’t take long before Prompto can start smelling the gunpowder as it falls onto Ignis’s forearms, his bared hands, the tense tic in his cheek and in the angle of his jaw: the sweep of the edge that guards Prompto’s back, that keeps him in the clear.

But not even all this teamwork can get them back to the haven if they don’t start running -- and the moment Ignis hisses, the moment the ribbon of blood and miasma flies through the air and spatters onto Prompto’s own cheek he growls, and catches up that shaking hand in his own, and shouts, “We have to go, now!”

“Not without the, the supplies, that was what I was trying to move -- curatives, food,” he hears Ignis say. 

“I’ll get them for you. You need to get to the haven now.” He hopes he’s being kind, taking charge like this, unexpectedly. All he can hear is the fearful edge in his own voice. “I’ll point you in its direction. And I’ll be watching your back.”

“Prompto -- ”

“Ignis,” he says, and he -- dares, he draws close, he presses a swift kiss to that beautifully angled cheekbone. 

And immediately after, he squares Ignis’s shoulders in the faint direction of blue haven-light. “Go, go, as fast as you can and don’t stop until you cross the lines.”

“I won’t be so quick to forgive you if you fail to come after me.”

He grins. “You know me: I never want to be daemon food.”

“See to it that you don’t.”

And he watches as Ignis vanishes his spear -- draws those familiar wicked edges of daggers instead -- and sets off at a graceful run.

He curses only when Ignis is well out of sight -- but the curses turn into a small thankful “Oh, shit,” and he grunts as he lifts the entire weight of the overflowing duffel bag -- slings it on and it’s a thumping jarring weight against his back as he jogs back toward the haven -- whatever’s in it is full of lumps and he knows he’s going to wind up with a bruised tailbone for the sake of these important things. Cans of food, maybe; makeshifted first-aid kits, or the muffled clink of fragile bottles.

A sleeve sticking out of a burst seam, that maybe he’ll beg Ignis for, if he’s lucky enough that the thing’s in his size: black, of course, but the green swirling lines of embroidery, clustered in a wide bracelet on the wrist-end, are what catch his eye. 

Green like Ignis’s eyes had been, complicated forest- and leaf-shades.

Hands reaching out for him, unerring, as soon as he runs back within arm’s length of the haven -- and he’s hauled up against the strength of a heartbeat, the erratic heave of Ignis’s breath. Arms relieving him of the weight of the duffel -- arms pulling him down into a shiver, into an embrace, still.

“I’m all right,” he mumbles against the sweat pooling in the collar of Ignis’s shirt. “Just -- shaken.”

“I’ve never gotten over the shaking,” is the response he gets, like a very small confession against the looming dark hours. “I only became more proficient at hiding it.”

“Don’t have to hide with me. From me. Whatever. I don’t judge you. I won’t.” And he breaks away, and fumbles in his own pockets for bandages, for the last little strips of adhesive first-aid tape: he cleans the scratches in Ignis’s arms as best as he can. Winds the fluttering fragile gauze on. Butterfly of tape to close the fresh claw-scrape high near Ignis’s left temple, ragged edges and all.

“And yourself?”

“Winded,” he admits. 

“That is alarming,” he hears Ignis begin. “That isn’t like you -- ”

“I need to get off my feet,” he explains. “Blisters. I think my socks have had it.”

“Not good,” is the reply: and he watches Ignis reach for the duffel, and reach into it, confidently, and -- he pulls out a pair of fluffy warm socks in dark gray. 

He also pulls out the shirt that Prompto’s been eyeing -- and it’s even prettier, once he looks at the entire thing. The thin bands of green embroidery in the cuffs continue up along the seams and then meet at the shoulder-yoke. “If you should need something warmer to wear.”

“Wasn’t thinking about warmer,” he says. “Wanted to cover my arms, that’s all.”

Those eyes narrow in on him, still knowing, still sharp. “Prompto.”

He does his best not to flinch, and in part that’s easy because Ignis is taking his hand, soft strong sure grip. 

Fingertips tracing over his skin and little fine bumps rising in the wake of those touches. 

“Warm spots,” Ignis is muttering. “Rough, small, angled trajectories.” Blink, blink, movement of slow-growing eyelashes against scarred cheeks. “Bullet-burns.”

“Got it in one,” Prompto murmurs back. “I don’t think I can help it. And I refuse to stop. I’m not going to switch weapons. I’m good with guns and I’m sticking with them.”

“Then I shall not ask you to do so.” Sigh, and another fluttering brush of callused fingers, rough-pad gentleness, against the pulse in his wrist. Ignis’s gentle resigned smile. “Take the shirt.”

“I’ll be happy to.”

And he doesn’t hesitate because -- it’s a lovely thing, the shirt, when he skins it on. Cool material, flowing almost like silk along his skin. He’s warm in the black, in the green stitching, and he’s pleasantly surprised to find the holes in the leading edges of the sleeves, and he threads his thumbs through, so the shirt-cuffs cover his knuckles. “This is great, Ignis, thanks,” he adds. “It’s a good shirt. If I didn’t want it I’d apologize because -- it’ll look better on anyone else. Everyone else.”

“I wish I could see you in it. You always did do well in -- unexpected colors.”

He laughs, a little. “Thanks.”

Sigh, and half a smirk, though it quickly fades away. “Don’t mention it.”

“Rest,” he mutters, after a moment, and he can almost ignore the calls, the cries, the taunts outside the haven. He can fall back onto the stone and close his eyes and just -- soak in the warmth of Ignis, sitting close by. “Because you look like you need it. I know you have someplace to take that bag. I know you have someplace you need to go. But -- you won’t survive, running exhausted.”

“Voice of experience, Prompto?”

He snorts, a little. “Yeah. But this is -- this is all something that’s just going to exhaust us. Missing the sun. Missing the feeling of -- sitting someplace and not having to count before you hear some daemon shrieking at you.”

“Obstacles, all of it, in the way of -- being still.”

He blinks, and glances over. Wishes he could look into those solemn eyes. “Of course you’re reading my mind. I miss being still. I wanted to be. I tried to be, and it wasn’t always easy.”

“Yes,” and Ignis is turning his head, too, as if to look at him, the only way he can now. “Now, though, perhaps I can find other ways of doing so.”

He tries to smile. “I’ll encourage you, if I can, if that’s a thing I can do.”

Movement of swallowing in Ignis’s throat. “Thank you, Prompto.”

Shift and rustle of clothing, and Ignis is -- stretching out right next to him. Warmth of him that bridges the scant distances between their shoulders, their arms, their hands, their knees and legs and feet. 

He’s almost asleep -- but he flinches, almost, when he feels Ignis shift again and -- he’s looking, he’s wide-eyed, and Ignis is ghosting a kiss over his forehead. 

He looks up into that beautiful face that lingers above him. The softened line of that mouth, and the lines missing from the corners of his eyes.

“Ignis,” he says, softly, so as not to break the moment.

“A return, from earlier.”

“Oh, that.” He doesn’t make a joke of it. He owns up to it. “I didn’t know what was going to happen. I just -- it was an impulse. I wanted to help you feel something that you knew. Have I done something wrong?”

“Hardly, since I returned the gesture in kind.” Pause. Breath. “I felt better when you did it. I had been afraid. I didn’t know where I was; I had gotten turned around in my travels and then -- I’d been fending off so many attacks. I felt lost; I felt that the world had left me behind. I had forgotten about this haven. Imagine my shock when I thought I heard your voice and you were shouting, you were reckless -- but you were calling for me, you were calling because you wanted to help.”

“Got to do my bit,” he says. “Don’t tell me where you’re going, don’t tell me what you’re doing. If it’s secret stuff, let it be secret stuff, I don’t want to pry, that part doesn’t matter to me. But you? You do. You matter. So, so -- just let me get you to some other place where you can be safe for a bit and then -- I’ll take myself off somewhere else if that’s what you’d prefer, and -- ”

Fingertip, touching his mouth.

He goes still.

“I wasn’t looking for you, but -- I wanted to find you,” and Ignis is smiling a little, whispering more softly. 

And -- Prompto has questions, he can feel them crowding on the tip of his tongue.

He asks none of them -- only leans up into the warmth of Ignis. The stillness of him where he’s still leaning in. “Then I’m glad I found you.”

Small real curve of a small real smile. “I’m glad you found me.”

“I can’t always travel with you,” he warns, quietly, even as he’s pulling Ignis down into his arms, even as Ignis is curling in closer to him, the angles and the lines of him warming against Prompto’s skin.

“No. I know that. There are tasks that are yours alone. There are tasks that are mine alone. But -- will we not stand a better chance of surviving, if we watched each other’s backs when we could?”

“Like we used to,” he says. 

“Yes.”

“We’ll do that,” and he hitches Ignis closer, or is it Ignis who’s trying to close all the gaps between them? Certainly he’s tracing circles into Ignis’s back, and certainly Ignis is clutching at the fabric of his new shirt.

When he feels the kiss in the hollow of his throat, he breathes out, grateful, still.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


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